The Collection
by Olive Hue
Summary: Rhodes was always a loner, until he met Bridges. Now, at last, they're a couple. But a deeply personal case suddenly calls them to New York, putting their relationship to the test. Update: chapter two
1. Prologue

A/N: Guess who's back! Oh wait, don't guess; it's a shocking habit, destructive to the logical faculty. _Deduce_ who's back! Yessir, it's Wakizashi, with another installment of my Rhodes and Bridges series. Huzzah! Your reviews for the last one were so fantastic, I couldn't stay away for long. For those of you who are new to my stories, 'A Perfect World' and 'Down the Rabbit-Hole', my characters, Ethan Rhodes and Nadia Bridges are my modern, _American_ (gasp!) variations of Holmes and Watson. It might be a good idea to read the first two, to familiarize yourself.

To my faithful readers: I took your suggestions about point-of-view to heart, and came to the agreement of most of you that it wouldn't be such a great idea to tell it from Rhodes's POV; we like his inner thoughts to be an insoluble mystery, don't we? So here's what I decided: mostly Bridges's point-of-view, with some third-person present-tense thrown in for some variety. Because Bridges can't be everywhere at once, can she?

Also, many thanks to my beta reader, solitairebbw218 for fixing all of my atrocious spelling errors, and for all of her nice comments. Thank ye kindly, Soli!

One last note, and I'll shut up, I promise. This story, unlike the others, is _not_ a modern remake of one of the original Sherlock Holmes stories. I suppose you could say it's more of a cross-over, really. In fact, a few of you might be familiar with the series I'm, er, borrowing from. But it was still inspired by Conan Doyle's characters, so I'll just keep it in the Sherlock Holmes section, to make it easier to find. Okay, I'm done! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: My characters are inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Anything you like about them probably wasn't my idea.

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The Collection

a modern Sherlock Holmes fanfiction

by Wakizashi

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Prologue

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The long tanned fingers rest gently, infusing their warmth, their life, into the smooth white keys. There is a tense, expectant silence, and then the fingers begin to move, lending temporary life to the inanimate object beneath them. Music - the bright, lively tones so characteristic of that master weaver of the music of life, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - fills the cavernous concert hall, falling on the ears of every hearer, who have come solely for that object: to worship sound.

But though it is the 'Turkish March' from the Sonata in A major that they are hearing, it is not Mozart's hands that are playing. These hands, which fly up and down the keys like nervous birds, alighting here and there to extend a note before taking flight again, do not belong to any of the great composers of centuries ago - not unless the great composers wore digital wristwatches.

The sprightly strains of the 'Turkish March' soon subside, giving way to the more melancholy sounds of Chopin's posthumous Nocturne in C# minor. The fingers slow, lingering almost regretfully on every note, while the listeners sit rapt, utterly lost in the moment. And then the fingers surprise all in attendance - beyond expectation, beyond comprehension - with a sudden aggressive, pulsing rhythm: Led Zeppelin's 'Kashmir'. They pound on the keys relentlessly, and the astonished audience cannot help but listen, caught up in the unexpected but compelling change of mood.

Then, all too soon, the hands come to a rest. Silence again fills the hall, until it is replaced all at once with thunderous applause. They came to worship sound, and they have not been disappointed.

Pushing back from the gleaming black Steinway & Sons grand piano, Christopher DeMarco stands up and faces the audience with a bow. As usual, DeMarco attempts to remain as calm and composed as a member of a church choir, and as usual, he cannot quite hold back a disbelieving chuckle as he looks out over the seemingly endless rows of the Carnegie Hall. It seems, to him, that he will never get used to the adulation he receives after every performance.

DeMarco's sheepish grin as he waves to the audience only serves to renew the applause to a deafening degree. He cannot help but notice that a large percentage of the seats are occupied by young women. His cheeks redden a little, and he gives another quiet chuckle. It had taken him by surprise when he had first learned that the New York public had dubbed him "the rock star of the classical scene". With his thick, slightly curly dark hair, his warm brown eyes, and his ingenuously appealing smile, Kit DeMarco is considered something of a heart-throb by the music community. The reputation and the moniker, along with the sheer multitude of his female fans, make him feel more embarrassed than flattered.

As the curtains close, DeMarco exhales in relief and trudges off backstage in search of his overcoat. He finds it, of course, in his dressing-room, where he left it. Shaking his head, he shrugs his coat on and, after looking around carefully, creeps out into the corridor and takes the most circuitous route possible to the exit, and to his waiting limousine.

Immediately he is bombarded by legions of adoring fans. DeMarco finds he is forced to, in the most polite manner, gently elbow and shove his way toward the limo, stopping unavoidably to accept hearty words of praise and to sign cd covers and concert programs. His embarrassed smile seems to be permanently etched on his face. _Cripes,_ he thinks to himself, _they must be confusing me with someone from American Idol._

By the time he succeeds in throwing himself into the safety of the limousine, DeMarco is rather breathless, and thoroughly drained. He rubs at his aching shoulders, looking forward with growing eagerness to his pleasantly lumpy couch and one of his old leatherbound classics. Maybe a scotch on the rocks. Ooh, yeah, that sounds good.

His manager, Michael Spencer, is already seated at the other end of the spacious compartment, looking at him closely through his stylish wire-frames. "Rough night, Kit?" he asks in a deliberately casual voice.

DeMarco shrugs, doing his best to ignore his manager's scrutinizing gaze. "No more insane than usual, lately," he replies lightly. "Toss me a Coke, will you, chief?"

Wisely deciding not to take the young pianist's request literally, Spencer takes a can out of the mini-fridge and passes it to him. "You sure about that?" he asks.

DeMarco is inescapably aware of Spencer's searching blue eyes as he throws back his neck and chugs thirstily. Finally he sighs impatiently. "Okay, Mike, what's with the cross-examination? We've known each other for years. If you want to ask me something, just ask me."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, Kit." The older man leans forward in his seat, regarding him very seriously. "No offense, but you seemed kind of out of it tonight. I don't mean the performance; that was technically flawless, as usual. But there was something... I don't know, _off_. Like you were somewhere else." Spencer pauses, as if in hesitation. "Anything wrong?"

DeMarco sighs, rubbing absently at his shoulder again. He half-heartedly wishes he would stop slouching. "Nah; not _wrong_, exactly," he says as he stares out the window, the bright lights of the passing city periodically illuminating his clear-cut, refined features. "I've just... got a lot of things on my mind. Not _bad_ things. Just... things."

"Things, huh?" Spencer fixes him with a sternly paternal eye. "Don't make me worry about you, kid."

"Sorry, chief."

"Look, you want to stop calling me 'chief'?" Spencer suggests with a glare.

DeMarco grins. "Could be worse. I could be like Gatsby, call you 'old sport'." His manager groans, and the younger man laughs. "All right, all right. But I'm fine, Mike. Really. Couldn't be better."

Spencer does not seem at all convinced, but he at least lets the matter drop, and their conversation drifts into other, lighter matters.

It is not until the limousine eases to a halt outside DeMarco's high-rise apartment in Greenwich Village that the subject is broached again. "Seriously, Kit," says Spencer, laying a hand on DeMarco's arm as he starts to climb out, "if anything's bugging you, and you feel like telling me, don't even think twice. Okay?"

DeMarco has to smile. "You know it, Mike," he replied, slapping the older man on the shoulder. "Take it easy, old sport."

"Get out."

He closes the door with a chuckle and watches as the limousine roars off down the busy street, standing for a while in the bitter January cold with his hands in his coat pockets and his eyes far away. Then he turns and strolls up the sidewalk to his apartment building.

As he steps inside his apartment and bolts and chains the door behind him, DeMarco's tall, lean frame instantly relaxes. He tosses his keys onto a nearby table and crosses the living room, stopping to check his messages. There is only one, a man speaking in a nasal, somewhat anxious tone: "Mr. DeMarco, this is Agent Girdley. We spoke the other day, about this latest disappearance. I was just calling to see if you'd had any new thoughts, theories, so on and so forth. Give me a call as soon as you can." DeMarco sighs, and writes on the Dry-Erase board on his refrigerator: "Call Nerdly".

He flips on a floor lamp, throws his coat over the back of a chair, and collapses onto his beige leather sofa. His lustrous eyes lose their distant, abstracted quality as they come to rest on a large black binder on his slate-topped coffee table. A slight smile quirks the corner of his mouth, and he picks it up and places it in his lap.

Flipping it open, DeMarco gazes down at the pages in his quietly intense manner. He leafs through them in a slow, familiar way, as if he has leafed through them many times before. On each page, under a clear plastic protector, are two or three newspaper articles. All are cut from the San Francisco Tribune; an odd choice, given the city he himself lives in.

As DeMarco continues flipping, a recurring theme seems to develop in the articles: crime cases, varying in their degree of importance and difficulty. There are cases of burglary, extortion, and occasionally even of murder. DeMarco flips to the end, where an article cut from the cover section of the paper fills the entire page. The headline proclaims in large, bold font: "EMBEZZLING RING EXPOSED BY RHODES AND BRIDGES".

The article exclaims in gushing admiration the success of the increasingly well-known young partnership, even going as far as calling them "the city's leading unofficial detective agency." Beside the article is a large color photograph of the partnership in question.

This picture shows a tall, thin young man in a dark gray suit, with longish, wavy black hair and light green eyes. His skinny arm is flung around a slight, freckled young woman with golden brown hair. The girl is not what one might call classically beautiful, but DeMarco is quite of the opinion that she is nevertheless very attractive in a petite, impish kind of way. The camera clearly caught them both laughing, as if at some uproarious joke, and the young man's innocently charming grin is strikingly similar to the one that suddenly spreads over DeMarco's face.

"I'm coming to see you soon, little bro," he says.

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A/N: I won't say anything. I'll just let you think what you will.

Yay, I'm so glad I'm writing about Rhodes and Bridges again! Even though I technically haven't yet. And I'm really liking this whole third-person present-tense thing. I must confess, I got the idea from reading _Bleak House_ by Dickens - some of it is from the point-of-view of Esther Summerson, and the other parts are third-person present-tense. I'm starting to see the advantages of it, as opposed to past-tense; it feels more real, more personal to the reader. Anyway, there it is. Tell me what you thought, while I start work on chapter one!

-Waki


	2. The Date

A/N: Oww, I'm back! Be cool, my babies! ...Sorry, that was my Conan O'Brien moment. Well, here I am again, and thank you so much for all your reviews! I'm glad you like DeMarco, or at least what little you've read about him as yet. If anyone is having trouble imagining what he looks like, I've just been picturing James Franco, because he's got dark hair and eyes, a tan complexion, and a cute smile. So yeah. But that was just the prologue, baby! Back to Rhodes and Bridges!

Disclaimer: 'The Collection' is mine, but I owe my inspiration to Conan Doyle. May he be praised for his genius.

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The Collection

a modern Sherlock Holmes fanfiction

by Wakizashi

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Chapter One: The Date

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"We that are true lovers run into strange capers."

-Touchstone, As You Like It, act 2

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The girl in the white dress holds her hands behind her back, smiling mischievously. There can be no arguing that she is her father's daughter; she has his blonde hair and deep blue eyes. In spite of the dimness of the long, opulent hallway, her dress and her silky yellow hair seem to give off an ethereal glow. Even as her older brother glares at her, her smile grows wider, showing the small gap between her front teeth.

"Whatever you've got, Alice, give it back right now," her brother growls, his dark eyebrows knitting in irritation.

The girl only giggles. "Not yet," she replies in her lilting Southern belle voice. "First you have to guess which hand it's in."

Not bothering to suppress a groan, her brother leans against the ornately carved wall moldings. "I don't _care_ which hand it's in," he says impatiently. "And I don't have time for your nonsense. Now give me back whatever it is you stole, and stop going in my room without my permission."

"You are so incredibly _boring_," the girl complains, rolling her eyes. "All you ever do is study, and play backgammon with your weird friends, and read those creepy true crime stories. If you want to be a private eye so bad, then guess which hand it's in!"

The boy shoots her a venomous look. "_Criminal investigator_, not private eye," he says with condescending slowness. "And if I'm so boring, why is it that you insist on filching my stuff?"

"Oh, get a life," the girl replies calmly, to her brother's righteous indignation. "Did it ever occur to you that I might just want to spend time with my boring brother?"

"No, never," he says instantly. "Now hand it over."

"Fine," the girl says, sighing theatrically as she pulls a small red pocketknife from behind her back. "I don't know why you care. You never use it anyway."

At this the boy's pale green eyes grow as round as saucers. "Alice, give me that right now!" he demands. "You know Mother gave that to me!"

"All right, I'm sorry. I'll give it back." Suddenly she grins. "After you catch me!" And she is off like a shot down the dark hallway.

The boy raises his eyes to the ceiling, muttering wordlessly to himself. Then he sprints off after her. The corridor is filled with tapestries and oil paintings, and as he runs, he passes scores of grim, frowning ancestors. He sees a flash of white fabric darting through a doorway, and he smiles to himself. _She's cornered._

Edging forward silently toward the open door, he suddenly bursts into the room. "Alice, when I get my hands on you, I'll--"

But his threat is left unvocalized. For though this should be what was once his mother's sewing room, he instead finds himself in another long corridor. No; the _same_ corridor. He frowns in confusion and turns toward the door he came through. A blank wall.

The boy swallows his unease and begins to walk down the hallway, passing the same doors, the same stern faces. He clears his throat. "Alice?" The name comes out in a weak croak. There is no answer. The portraits seem to glare down at him in disapproval.

And then he hears the scream.

His stomach gives a hideous lurch. "Alice?" he calls out, a little louder this time.

"Ethan! Ethan, help me!"

His long, lanky legs suddenly seem to act independently of his body, carrying him faster than he ever thought possible. But all too soon, he finds himself at a dead-end. He passes through the nearest door, and staggers yet again into the same hallway.

"Ethan, help! _Please!_" Another heart-freezing scream.

"I'm coming, Alice!" he shouts. He tries another door at random, but it is the same as before: the same dim corridor with the accusing faces. He keeps running.

Soon he arrives at yet another dead-end, only now there are no doors, no other choices. He skids to a stop, breathing hard, searching frantically, desperately, for another way out. In his blind panic he fails to notice the object on the floor until he stumbles over it. Quickly regaining his balance, he reaches down and picks it up.

A brown stuffed teddy bear.

"_Alice!_"

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With a choked gasp, Ethan Rhodes sits bolt upright in his massive oak bed, drenched in a freezing sweat. For a long time he remains motionless, his eyes staring out into the darkness of his room without actually seeing anything. And then he takes a slow, shuddering breath and leans forward, putting his ashen face into his hands.

He already knows he will not be sleeping any more tonight.

He sits like this for a while, his knees drawn to his chest and his head in his hands. The only sounds are the occasional passing car out in the street below his window, and his own shallow breathing. Finally he mutters a very uncharacteristic curse, throws off his covers, and climbs out of bed.

Cringing instantly the moment his feet touch the cold floor, Rhodes snatches a t-shirt off a nearby chair and jerks it down over his pale, naked torso. His every movement is stiff and agitated, and his eyes studiously avoid landing on the stuffed bear on his bedside table.

After shrugging into his robe - a dark gray dressing-gown given to him on his last birthday and treasured most devotedly - Rhodes shuffles out of his room and down the stairs. As he flicks on the kitchen light, the hanging copper pots cast strange shadows on the raw-sienna colored walls. He stands there for a moment, shivering slightly and wondering absently what he is doing. He contemplates making a pot of tea, and even gets as far as laying a hand on the kettle, but instead retrieves from the refrigerator one of the Jones sodas he keeps stocked for visitors - or at least, one visitor in particular.

He pulls a bar stool up to the white-and-blue tiled counter and sits down, taking a long drink from the bottle. Inevitably, his thoughts drift back to his dream - or, more accurately, his nightmare. Rhodes has never been the most sound sleeper, but these recent Kafkaesque night terrors have not plagued him for years... not since he lost _her_. In truth, he has not had slept nightmare-free since Bridges was good enough to keep him company on Christmas night - under the strictest propriety, of course.

Bridges. It always seems to come down to Bridges. As he stares at the bottle of freakishly green liquid, Rhodes reflects on how much his best friend resembles her favorite beverage - sweet, colorful, bubbly. And unlike him in almost every way. Yet somehow, she is so utterly perfect for him. He only wishes he was as perfect for her.

Nadia Lynn Bridges walked into his life the morning he decided to get his last cup of coffee. She walked in with her freckled nose, her cheeky grin, and her waitress's apron, and he knew instantly that she was there for a reason: to give him something to live for. There was one stupid, agonizing moment when he almost lost her, but never again will he let that happen. His world moves for Bridges.

Suddenly he misses her terribly.

It has been almost a week since the last time he saw her, which was that very eventful New Year's Day. She returned to her massage clinic to find herself swamped with appointments; holiday-related stress seemed to be the most common culprit. Rhodes knows she must be worn out, and secretly - very secretly - he wishes she would quit her job and join him more fully in their detective work, but he knows better than to voice his opinion. When Bridges devotes herself to something, she clings to it like a barnacle.

Still, a week without her is an unpleasant sensation. Rhodes always feels her absence acutely whenever she travels up to Washington to visit her father and her high school friends. But knowing she is close and being unable to see her is simply intolerable. He knows he has become almost dependent on her, but there are worse addictions.

Involuntarily, his eyes drift to the telephone. If he could just hear her voice, that might be enough... But then he sees the time on the microwave: 3:41. Even Rhodes is not _that_ completely selfish and inconsiderate.

Instead, after tossing the empty bottle into the recycle bin, he picks up his leather pocketbook, which somehow, in its travels, ended up on the kitchen table. Falling into a chair, he opens the pocketbook and takes out a much-handled photograph. It was taken by Bridges's friend, Alma Dominguez, during one of the times he accompanied Bridges to Olympia, and sent to him without his partner's knowledge.

It shows them both at a restaurant, in formal-wear. Bridges is wearing a form-fitting, cream-colored dress, and has her hands wrapped tightly around Rhodes's arm. Rhodes, in contrast, has his eyes locked on her, a slight but noticeable blush on his pale face. The reverse side of the photograph, if he cared to look, bears a short note in Alma's handwriting: "You know you want her." Along with a doodle of a face with hearts for eyes. Rhodes later repaid her kind gift by thoughtfully putting a rubber snake in her purse.

Even now, he is as mesmerized by the sight of Bridges as he was the night the photograph was taken. Though the picture is a poor substitute for flesh and blood, it still manages to capture her fun-loving, effervescent spirit. He stares at it fixedly, as if willing her to materialize in front of him. Then he puts it down with a groan, resting his shaggy head in his arms.

There are only so many nights a man can successfully go without sleep, until he has no option but to succumb to a nervous breakdown.

----

A storm was raging down on San Francisco, California. The rain saturated everything, driving people inside buildings and into cars. The howling wind whipped through the lashing trees, tearing the leaves from their branches. A thick, impenetrable fog covered the city, and the headlights of the cars were barely able to pierce it.

And yet I walked through the wind-ravaged city, singing merrily to myself as I struggled to keep my bright yellow umbrella from being pulled out of my hands and into some unfortunate person's windshield. "Here comes the sun, doot-n' doo doo," I sang, oblivious to the bewildered and occasionally affronted glances of the few people that shared the street with me. "Here comes the sun, and I say, it's all right!"

Ah, how good it was to be in love.

It was January sixth, six days from New Year's Day. Six days since that blissful moment when Ethan Nicholas Rhodes, my partner, best friend, and the man I loved with all my heart and soul, had taken me into his arms and kissed me with such passion that I thought I would pass out from lack of air. I still hadn't caught my breath.

Unfortunately, I had not seen much of Rhodes since then. I had to work all week, and not to sound like some pining teenager, I ached every moment I wasn't in his long, wiry arms. But he had called me every day, sometimes at work. He asked me how I was doing, and told me he missed me. I blushed just thinking about the intimacy of our conversations, intimacy we never had before, when we were friends and nothing more.

Today was Friday. Once my work day was over, I would have the rest of the weekend to spend with Rhodes. The thought gave me a delicious shiver.

I continued down the hill and turned onto Market Street, dodging a newspaper that almost flew into my face. I stopped at the big glass windows with the words _Bay Area Massage Clinic_ etched in large white letters, and I pushed the door open.

"I have arrived!" I announced to anyone who had sought refuge from the storm inside the massage clinic this morning. In this case, the only other person in the waiting area was the clinic's receptionist, Stephanie Boggs; a tall young woman with blonde hair and cute cat-eye glasses.

"Little darling," I continued singing as I hung my coat up and shook the rain from my umbrella, "it's been a long, cold, looonely winter..."

Stephanie looked up from the computer on her desk with a wry smile. "Morning, Nadia," she said, raising a knowing eyebrow. "I can see this weather's had no affect on you. Still have dear Rhodes on the brain, do we?"

"Dear Rhodes," I repeated wistfully, and Stephanie laughed. "Any appointments today?" I asked her.

"Just a few," she replied, consulting the monitor. "A lot of people called in and cancelled before you got here. I guess they thought a good massage wasn't worth going out in the storm for."

"Ah, well, their loss." I cracked my knuckles lazily. Massage therapy was tiring work. One needed, not only a strong pair of hands, but the endurance not to get burned out during an hour-long session. And it wasn't always pleasant work, either; unless a client had a body like, well, Rhodes's, for example, it was sometimes difficult not to recoil from the occasional rolls of fat or liver-spotted wrinkles that I had to force myself to touch.

Today, however, I felt good; danged good. I felt especially strong, and by the time our lunch break rolled around, I was only experiencing a slight stiffness in my shoulders. Still, I had to remind myself to schedule a massage of my own some time in the future.

As I bit into the chicken pita I had brought for lunch, the phone rang. Stephanie had gone out to the Subway down the street, so I quickly swallowed what I had been chewing and picked up the handset. "Bay Area Massage Clinic, how may I help you?" I asked politely.

"Nadia, is that you?"

I blinked. "Ed?" I said, somewhat surprised that my sort-of friend, FBI Special Agent Edward Solomon, would be calling me at my workplace. "What's up?"

"You wouldn't know where Rhodes is by any chance, would you?" he asked in his gruff voice. "I tried his condo, but there was no answer. And his cell phone's turned off."

"I haven't talked to him since last night," I replied. Then I frowned in concern. "Why, is something wrong?"

Solomon cleared his throat. "Nah, it's... it's nothing, I'll tell you later. But if you see Rhodes, or talk to him, would you tell him to give me a call?"

"Yeah, of course," I said, perplexed. "Are you _sure_ nothing's wrong?"

There was a click, and the dial tone hummed monotonously in my ear. Frowning again, I shrugged and hung up the phone. "Weirdo," I muttered to myself.

Suddenly there was a light knock on the door, and I looked up. Beyond the broad windows, a black 2002 Ford Thunderbird was parked next to the sidewalk, its convertible top closed against the fury of the storm. The door opened, and Ethan Rhodes stepped inside the waiting room, shaking the rain out of his shaggy black hair.

Without a word, I tossed the remains of my lunch onto the receptionist's desk and came forward into his arms, my heart leaping into my throat as he bent down and kissed me lightly on the mouth. "Enjoying the weather?" he asked in his dry Southern accent.

"Immensely," I replied, grinning. He laughed softly to himself. "God, I haven't seen you in _eons_. What are you doing here?"

Rhodes raised his dark eyebrows in mock surprise. "Why, my dear Bridges, why else would I be here?" he exclaimed. "I came to make an appointment for a massage. Are there any therapists here that you might recommend?"

"You little schmuck," I said, shoving him playfully.

He chuckled again as he shrugged out of his overcoat and sat, or rather fell, into one of the chairs in the small waiting room. "I shouldn't think I'd need an excuse to see you, Bridges," he said quietly, leaning back and closing his eyes.

I smiled. "I know." As I plopped down beside Rhodes, I took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He was, of course, sharp and well-dressed in his usual monochromatic way, but there was something vaguely disheveled about him, something undefinable. Then my gaze lifted to his face, and I knew what it was. His pale cheeks had a hollow quality to them, and there were dark smudges under his long black eyelashes. He looked exhausted.

I opened my mouth to inquire about his health, but his voice cut me off before I could say anything. "So how has your morning gone so far?" he asked politely.

I blinked for a moment before realizing what he had asked. "Mm, pretty busy," I replied with a sigh. "What with the post-holiday stress and all. A few cancellations, but that's probably because of the storm."

Rhodes nodded slightly, his eyes still closed. "Right."

"Apparently some people would rather suffer than go out in the rain, even for a minute. But honestly, if you can't take the rain, what in the heck are you doing in San Francisco?"

"Mm-hmm."

I narrowed my eyes at Rhodes, beginning to suspect he wasn't really listening. I paused in thought. "Actually," I began casually, "I decided earlier this morning that I'm going to quit. Start my own clothing line."

Rhodes nodded again, his mind clearly somewhere else. "Really."

"Yeah, I'm going to call it 'The Emperor's New Clothes', and I'll be working with nothing but transparent materials - cellophane, bubble wrap, those kinds of things."

At last Rhodes's eyes opened, and he turned toward me very slowly. "_What?_"

It took all I had to keep a straight face. "Rhodes, I just told you I'm going to quit my job and become the designer of an obscene clothing line. Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

It was obvious he hadn't. "I'm sorry, Bridges," he said with a smile that would have been sheepish had he not looked so worn and haggard. "I can't seem to concentrate on anything today."

"Is that why you left your cell phone off?" I asked. "You know, Solomon has been trying to call you all day."

At this his light green eyes finally seemed to focus. "Whatever for?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, he wouldn't tell me. He just said he needed to talk to you about something."

Rhodes sighed and slid forward in his chair, staring down at his polished wingtips. "Probably something trivial, as usual," he said wearily. "If he bothered to develop a brain, he wouldn't need to consult me every twelve minutes."

"Hey," I said, putting my hand on his thin shoulder, "what's the matter? You look like you haven't slept for a week."

He chuckled under his breath, but it sounded cheerless. "As usual, you've managed to hit the nail right on the head," he replied, still staring listlessly at the floor. "Though it's been a bit longer than that. I haven't had a proper night's sleep since Christmas."

I frowned. "But that was when I - oh, right," I said, feeling my cheeks grow warm. "Poor thing." I rubbed his back soothingly for a moment, then began to massage his stiff neck and shoulders. He made a soft, contented sound, and I was abruptly reminded again of that Christmas night. I tried to push the thought out of my mind.

"So," I said after a short silence, still rubbing his shoulders, "do you want to do something after I get off work? Maybe go to a movie, or out to dinner or something?"

Rhodes sat up so suddenly that I let out an involuntary yelp of surprise. "Bridges!" he exclaimed, sounding almost affronted.

"What? What'd I do?" I asked, my heart still racing.

He stared at me in disbelief, his mouth half-open. Then apparently he realized I had no idea what had gotten into him, because he shook his head with a wry smile. "I'm... I'm sorry, it's just..." He shrugged slightly. "I was hoping _I_ would be the one to ask _you_ out on our first date."

I gasped as I became abruptly aware of my idiotic blunder. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea that--" I smacked myself in the forehead with the heel of my palm. "I'm such a retard. Just... go ahead anyway. Forget I said anything."

I felt his chair shaking, and I realized Rhodes was laughing silently to himself. "Give me one moment," he said between his laughter. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Bridges," he said very seriously, "would you like to go out with me tonight?"

I smiled. "Of course I would."

A grin lit up his tired face. "Good," he said. "I'll pick you up at your apartment at seven." I nodded, already giddy with anticipation, and stood up with Rhodes. "Well, I suppose I should let you get back to work."

"Yay," I said unenthusiastically. "I'll see you tonight. Try and get some rest, okay?"

Rhodes nodded vaguely, and pulled me into a long embrace. Then he kissed me again, longer this time, his arms tightening around my waist, and when he broke away, his lips lingered near mine. "Until tonight, Bridges," he murmured.

I nodded weakly. Giving my face one last caress, Rhodes threw on his coat and breezed out the door, passing Stephanie on the sidewalk and nodding cordially to her as he climbed into his Thunderbird and roared off into the storm.

Stephanie pushed open the door, carrying a Subway sandwich in one hand, eyebrows raised. "What's with you?" she asked. "Your face is as red as a stop sign."

"I..." I gave my head a shake to clear my thoughts and grinned stupidly. "I have a date."

----

I stepped back from the mirror, first to spray my perfume on my wrists and throat, then to critique my reflection. I wore turquoise halter dress with a matching shawl, and my honey brown hair was twisted back into a loose knot, a few stray pieces framing my face. With a last scrutinizing look at myself, I turned away and began strapping on a pair of high, beaded heels. _I hope Rhodes doesn't hate bright colors on other people_, I thought, wincing inwardly.

To be honest, I was nervous; _insanely_ nervous. Which really didn't make sense, I thought to myself as I looked at the clock for the billionth time. Rhodes and I had been best friends for years. What should I have to be nervous about?

Almost immediately I realized, that was exactly it. Rhodes and I had been _friends_. Whatever we did together, wherever we went, we had been bound by the rules every man and woman had to abide by when they were just friends. And now, suddenly, we were more than friends. When we were near each other, there was no law that forbade us from closing the inches between us. There were no laws period.

Anything was possible.

At exactly seven o'clock, my doorbell buzzed. I took a deep breath, went to the door, and pulled it open.

Rhodes stood in the hallway, looking simply delectable, if still a little worn. He was dressed in one of his typical charcoal-gray suits, but for once he had chosen a silver tie in favor of his usually unbuttoned collar; the tie, I was pleased to note, that I had gotten him for Christmas. His shoes were shined to perfection, and his longish black hair was glossy and impeccable. In his hand was a bouquet of red roses.

"Bridges," he said, his eyes taking in every detail of me. "You... you look breathtaking."

I smiled, trying not to blush - and failing, I might add. "Thank you, Rhodes," I said bashfully, stepping back to let him inside. "The flowers are beautiful."

"The what? Oh," he blurted, looking briefly down at the bouquet before returning his attention to me. "Right. The flowers. They're for you," he added, handing them to me.

"I figured," I replied, laughing at his flustered behavior. I went into the kitchen, found a vase, and filled it with water. I put the roses in it, then set the vase on the coffee table in the living room, aware that Rhodes' eyes were following my every move. Finally I returned to him. "So. Where are we going?"

"Ah, yes," he said, coming back to earth. "Well, I thought we might each decide one thing for us to do, and the other has to go along with it, no matter what it is."

"Interesting idea," I answered, smiling. "I take it you've already made your decision."

"Perhaps."

"And I assume you already know what mine will be."

Rhodes smiled wanly. "Unfortunately, I do."

As it happened, he did, but that didn't faze me. So I graciously submitted to his event of choice, which turned out to be a concert at the Davies Symphony Hall. The concert was Bach, Rhodes's favorite composer, and I could easily understand why; the San Francisco Symphony orchestra performed an exquisite rendition of his "Overture No. 5 in E major". I was whistling the songs we had heard all the way back to the car.

However, the night had only just begun. I then took Rhodes, as he had suspected, to the bowling alley for two orders of nachos and ten frames of cosmic bowling. Rhodes looked as if he might vomit when I handed him a pair of multi-colored bowling shoes in his size, and we received a few looks as we bowled in our formal-wear, ridiculously incongruous in the casual setting, but it was all worth it. I am convinced that Rhodes had fun.

Finally we returned to his condominium, at his suggestion, for blackberry mochas. Rhodes frequently insisted that I made the best coffee he had ever tasted, and he took advantage of the fact every chance he got. As he held the door open for me, I felt that familiar pleasant sensation I always felt when I walked inside his condo. I felt comfortable here, safe.

I handed Rhodes my shawl as I took off my heels. The rain had never let up the entire night, and I was very grateful for his umbrella. As Rhodes hung up his coat, I padded into the kitchen, noticing for the first time how untidy everything looked. My partner was usually very fastidious with his place, and it was strange to see clothes hanging over chairs and dishes piled high in the sink. In the end I attributed it to his lack of sleep.

"You know, Rhodes," I told him, flipping on the coffee maker as he sat down at the bar, "you're so obscenely wealthy, I often wonder why you don't hire a housekeeper."

Rhodes smiled innocently. "Now why would I do that, when I have you to clean up after me?" he teased.

"Neanderthal," I said, smacking him lightly on the head. "What would you do without me?"

He grunted. "Kill myself, no doubt." I looked up at him sharply, and he immediately realized his mistake. "I'm sorry, Bridges," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have." I turned my back to him, trying not to show how shaken I was. There were some things Rhodes and I just didn't talk about.

I heard him push back from the bar and stand up, and then he was behind me, his arms clasped loosely about my waist. "Bridges," he said softly, his mouth near my ear, "I didn't mean to upset you. But I can't help being grateful for everything you've done for me. I owe my existence to you."

I sighed, reaching up and placing my hand on the side of his face. "I know, it's okay," I told him, and he leaned his cheek into my hand. He turned me gently around to face him, his arms still encircling my waist, and I smiled. "I had a great time tonight, Rhodes. Thank you."

He bent down and put his forehead to mine. "You don't have to thank me, Bridges. Just seeing you tonight, and knowing I no longer have to be content to admire your beauty at a distance, is more than enough thanks for me."

I blushed. "How long... have you been in love with me?" I had to ask.

"I suppose I've always had romantic feelings for you," Rhodes answered after a short silence. I looked up at him in surprise. "From the moment I saw you in that coffee house, I thought you were beautiful. And I always felt something toward you, though I didn't know precisely what it was. It wasn't until the last year or so I realized that I was in love with you, that I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"A year," I repeated under my breath, shaking my head in amazement. "How come you never told me?"

He gave a little shrug. "By then, our friendship had grown so strong, I was afraid that telling you would ruin everything. I couldn't risk losing what we had."

I sat in silence for a moment. And then I started laughing to myself.

Rhodes looked sharply at me, offended. "Bridges, I hardly think it's necessary to laugh at me," he said indignantly, releasing his grip on my waist. "I already feel mortified enough at keeping it from you for so long."

"No, no, honey, that's not it at all," I assured him once I had recovered. "It's just, that's exactly why I never told you. I was afraid it would ruin our friendship. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, it was just so ironic, I--"

Thankfully I stopped babbling when I noticed the look of predatory desire on Rhodes's face. "What?" I asked. It came out as a squeak.

Snaking his arms around me again, he pulled me close, his green eyes dark as he stared into me. "That is the first time you've called me that," he said, his voice strangely calm. And then he kissed me.

My lips went slack for a second or two, surprised by his boldness. Then I edged closer to him, my fingers raking through his hair, kneading the muscles of his arms and shoulders. He yanked off his suit jacket and tie and threw them aside, then pulled me against his chest, kissing me with renewed urgency. Pulling my hair out of its knot, he ran his fingers hungrily through it.

"Ethan," I heard myself breathe. Then I grinned against his lips. "I feel weird calling you Ethan."

"Then don't," he murmured, running his hands down my sides. "I'm your Rhodes, and you're my Bridges."

I let out a gasp as Rhodes moved his lips to the side of my neck and down to the hollow of my throat. His cool fingertips brushed feather-light along my spine, making my knees tremble slightly. Dizzy with bliss, I found his shirt collar, undid a few buttons. And then I stopped dead.

On his bare chest, alarmingly close to his heart, there was a small patch of shiny scar tissue from a bullet hole. He had taken that bullet within the first month we had known each other. A bullet intended for my chest.

"Oh, Rhodes," I whispered.

I dipped my head down and gently kissed the scar. He moaned softly, a shiver coursing through his body like an electrical current. I continued kissing his chest, emboldened by his heavy breathing. Then I experienced a shiver of my own as I felt him reach for the knot of my halter dress at the back of my neck and gently start to untie it.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. We both jumped, startled half to death. "Rhodes?" came a familiar gruff voice. "You in there? Open up, you little redneck!"

"Solomon," I growled under my breath, winding my hair back into its knot. "Can't that man leave us alone for two freaking seconds?"

Rhodes groaned and shook his head in irritation. "I knew I had forgotten something today," he muttered, still breathing hard. "I never called him back." Buttoning his shirt, he made a futile attempt to smooth his hair. "Shall we see what he wants?"

Trying to force myself to breathe normally, I followed him to the front door. Rhodes pulled it open, and Edward Solomon stared at them, his faded blue eyes wide with surprise. I looked back at him, wondering what had had such a extreme effect on the pudgy FBI agent. Then I turned to Rhodes and felt my own eyes go wide. For the first time I noticed that his lips were smeared with pink lip gloss. I fought the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing.

"Whoa, I, uh," Solomon stammered, holding up his hands, "didn't mean to, uh, interrupt anything, I just, uh--"

"What is it, Solomon?" Rhodes asked in a supremely dignified voice as I discreetly wiped the lip gloss from his face with the back of my hand.

With an effort, the agent collected his thoughts. "Well, I've been trying to reach you all day, but you haven't been home," he said, annoyed. "We got a call from the New York office with some pretty strange news. Maybe you guys should sit down for this."

I frowned in concern, but Rhodes shook his head. "We've had our share of shocking news, Solomon," he replied. "Whatever it is, I think we can take it."

"Okay, if you say so." Solomon transferred his bulky weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. "I don't know how else to put this, Rhodes. You have a brother."

The young detective stiffened. His green eyes seemed to stare right through the FBI agent. I had never seen him so stunned. I was shocked as well, but never in the two years we had known each other had I known him to react in such a dazed, shaken manner.

"A... a brother?" he repeated weakly.

I reached out and took his hand. It was as cold as a block of ice, and even less responsive.

"Yeah, an older brother," Solomon continued in a low voice, as unsettled as I was at the alarming change in Rhodes's demeanor. "But I'm afraid that's not the big news." In a sympathetic gesture which was uncharacteristic of him, he placed a hand on Rhodes' rigid shoulder. "The big news is that he's gone missing."

_Talk about a mood killer_, I thought.

----

A/N: I HAVE TO TELL YOU GUYS SOMETHING. Okay, so there's this boy I've known for years - what am I saying, _boy_, he's my age - who I've secretly adored for some time, and he just told me he has feelings for me. I didn't know this, but before he moved to where I live, he was so miserable that he was on the verge of killing himself. And then he met me. HE'S MY RHODES. And it's not like I based my characters on myself and this guy. I JUST found this out. Is that freaky or what? So I felt like I had to tell you, my readers, because that is some freaking big coincidence.

Anyway, snap, that was a long chapter. But somehow I don't think you'll mind. Well, now they know. Rhodes has a brother. But what happened to him? Sorry about the cliffhanger. But I'll have another chapter up soon, and in the meantime, tell me what you thought of chaptero uno! I always love to read your comments! Bye for now!

-Waki


	3. The Brother

A/N: Whoa my goodness, I'm sorry it took me forever to update! I was on vacation for a couple of weeks, but still, I have no excuse. And your reviews were so lovely, too. I can only hope this chapter will make up for my lamentable sloth. But first, I must thank Nako-chan for her very helpful suggestions. Go read her stories! She's awesome! But don't forget to review mine. Cough cough.

Disclaimer: Rhodes and Bridges are mine, but I wouldn't have them if it weren't for Holmes and Watson.

----

The Collection

An original fanfiction based on the Sherlock Holmes series

by Wakizashi

Chapter Two: The Brother

----

A silence followed Agent Solomon's statement. I stood motionless, still trying to process what I had just heard. Then I looked up at Rhodes, and an icy chill ran down my spine as I took in his taut muscles, his rigid face, and his disturbingly emotionless eyes. His manner was beginning to frighten me.

"...Missing?" I finally repeated, albeit somewhat unnecessarily. "What do you mean, missing? Like, disappeared? Since when? How do you know all this? Who told you?"

"Nadia, please!" Solomon interrupted, holding up his palms in a beseeching manner. "One question at a time. In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly a multi-tasker."

He had that right, I thought. "Sorry, Ed," I said with what I hoped was a placating smile. "Maybe you'd better just come inside and explain all this."

Solomon nodded and stepped through the open doorway, brushing carefully past Rhodes as he entered. I stole another glance at my partner, and was increasingly troubled to see that his face had gone completely blank. This was exactly what I was afraid would happen. I would not have been worried if I had seen surprise or disbelief, or even a fit of mild hysteria; that would be something. This non-reaction unnerved me.

As gently and unobtrusively as possible, I took Rhodes by the hand and tugged him out of the doorway. Pulling him along into the Asian-style living room, I felt like I was dating Frankenstein's monster; his footsteps were stiff and shuffling, as if it were the first day with his new legs. I didn't dare say anything, but already a sick feeling was forming in my stomach. This case was going to be bad, I knew it.

Eugene and Regina Rhodes had been married for over a decade before Ethan, their first, was born. It had been assumed, before his mother had gotten pregnant, that she simply could not have children. So either Ethan had not been her first, or Eugene had had a child with someone else.

Guess which explanation I was leaning toward.

"Okay," I said as we seated ourselves on the futon couch, "so let's start at the beginning. What do you know about Rhodes's brother?"

Solomon pulled a pocket notebook from his jacket and snapped it open, suddenly all business. "Right. His name is Christopher Jerome DeMarco. Twenty-nine years old, single, currently works as a concert pianist in New York City. Lives in a high-rise apartment in Greenwich Village."

"Wow, a pianist," I said. "Is he any good?"

"He must be," Solomon replied. "His name is famous in the New York classical community. He's even played Carnegie Hall a couple of times. 'Kit' DeMarco, the rock star pianist, or something. He has no enemies to speak of, and all of his friends and acquaintances describe him as a very friendly, outgoing, intelligent young man."

During the agent's description, Rhodes seemed to slowly come back to life. _Christopher DeMarco_, I thought in amazement. _Rhodes's brother._ The idea still seemed incredible to me. But if he was only three years older than my partner, one of Rhodes's parents must have been unfaithful. And what Solomon said next dispelled any doubts I had.

"His birth parents were..." He hesitated, shifting his bulk uncomfortably in the papasan chair. "Wanda DeMarco and Eugene Bertram Rhodes."

Rhodes leaned forward and put his shaggy head into his hands.

His father had cheated on his mother.

I cleared my throat in a feeble attempt to get the conversation past this roadblock. "So when did DeMarco go missing?"

"Uh, New Year's Day," Solomon answered, consulting his notebook with intense interest. "His manager, Michael Spencer, called NYPD when DeMarco didn't answer his phone or his door."

I shook my head. "Hang on, this isn't making any sense," I said. "His manager went to the _police?_ Then how did the Bureau find out about it? I mean, people disappear in New York all the time. What interest could the FBI possibly have in the disappearance of a concert pianist?"

"I was getting to that," Solomon growled, irritated at being interrupted. "True, the disappearance of a pianist isn't exactly a federal concern. But DeMarco isn't _just_ a pianist."

Rhodes raised his eyes and fixed an intent look on the agent. "Yes?" he said quietly. It was the first word he had uttered since Solomon's shocking revelation. "Then what else is he?"

Solomon glanced from one to the other of us, as if weighing something in his mind. "What I'm about to tell you two, I'm telling you only because I trust you not to blab about it to anyone else," he said seriously. "Your brother, Rhodes, is an unofficial consultant for the New York branch of the FBI. Unofficial, but indispensable. No one knows about his position but the Bureau - not even his closest friends. If it got out..." He paused uncertainly. "Well, at the very least, it'd be pretty hard to play the piano without your thumbs."

Rhodes and I looked at each other and winced reflexively. "Okay," I said slowly, "so maybe that's the problem. Maybe it _did_ get out, and someone in the criminal community decided he was too much of a risk. That isn't too far-fetched, is it?"

"It's a possibility we're not ruling out," Solomon replied. "In fact, it's probably the most likely explanation so far. But as long as the Bureau is still treating it as a disappearance, there's hope. Whereas, if the other theory wins out..." He cleared his throat. "They might as well start checking the morgues."

I slipped my hand into Rhodes's again, and this time he squeezed back tightly. At least, I thought with relief, he was becoming more responsive.

After an awkward silence, I spoke again. "I have a question."

"Of course you do," Solomon muttered.

Choosing to ignore this, I continued, "How in the name of all that's holy did _you_ find out about this, Ed? No offense, but I wouldn't guess the San Francisco branch to be exactly chummy with New York."

"No offense taken at all, Nadia," he said dryly. "But you're right. The reason for that is--"

"The reason you were informed of the disappearance of an unofficial FBI consultant from New York," Rhodes suddenly broke in, sounding indescribably weary, "is that DeMarco was going to contact me."

For a moment my mind failed to register the significance of my partner's words. I gaped at him, looking, I'm sure, rather like a goldfish, until I turned and noticed the stricken, even affronted look on Solomon's face. "He... Come again?" I blurted.

"How the hell did you know that?" Solomon demanded, almost angrily.

Rhodes sat back against the couch, his eyes on the ceiling. "If you paused for five seconds to think about it, you wouldn't be asking that question," he said, managing to sound both bitter and disinterested at the same time. "Why else would the New York office contact the San Francisco branch, of all places, unless...?" He rolled his head to the side and looked over at me expectantly.

"Unless..." My eyes widened in realization. "Unless they knew that DeMarco had learned about you and found where you lived."

For the first time since Solomon's arrival, a small smile crossed Rhodes's face. "_Brava_, my dear Bridges. You are a credit to your profession."

I began to open my mouth, to say that this wasn't my profession, but thought better of it and closed it again. This was all very immaterial, given the topic of our conversation, so I simply smiled at Rhodes's compliment and said nothing.

"Well, you're both right, as usual," the good Solomon groused, as only the good Solomon could. "When the feds took over the investigation, they searched DeMarco's apartment and found a leather-bound binder containing articles from all the San Francisco newspapers, all concerning cases of yours. Apparently he'd been looking for relatives on the Internet, and he found _you_." He paused for a second or two, hesitating. "They, uh, also found a plane ticket to San Francisco, scheduled for January third."

I felt a curious and strangely painful sensation in my chest at this. "He was coming to meet Rhodes?" I asked softly.

The heavyset agent nodded solemnly. "Yeah. He was."

There was a tense silence, during which neither of us quite had the courage to look Rhodes in the eye.

"But, obviously, he never got that far," Solomon resumed. "Security cameras at JFK didn't record anyone matching DeMarco's description, and airport officials say he never showed up for his flight. Besides, it's a moot point. If he was reported missing two days before his flight, it's clear he never got on the plane."

I realized my back had become as rigid as if the vertebrae had fused together, and I slowly leaned back on the couch. "Well," I said, "at least we know he didn't leave New York. That's... something, I guess."

"So it would seem, for now," Solomon agreed.

Rhodes leaned forward again, his pale face set. "I want to help," he said in a low, earnest voice.

Solomon nodded, a very slight but approving smile on his lips. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

Unfortunately, so did I.

----

_This doesn't have to be so hard._

As I stood motionless in Rhodes's kitchen, I stared down at the cell phone in my hand, my thumb poised over the glowing green 'call' button. All I had to do was press it. It wasn't all that late; my boss would certainly still be awake. It was a Friday night, for heaven's sake. Who goes to bed at ten on a Friday night?

Now don't just assume that I was afraid to call her. I wasn't afraid... per se. Susan Bates completely understood the sort of... special circumstances involved in being a private investigator. If something important came up that just happened to inconveniently get in the way of any appointments I might have had scheduled, she was always happy to find someone to fill in for me. Or, if not _happy_, at least _willing_.

Then again, I had been asking for time off rather a lot lately. Thankfully Rhodes's recent "illness" - which I would prefer not to go into at the moment, or ever again - had transpired on my winter holiday, so there was no need to miss any work. However, there had been cases; complex, often time-consuming cases which had demanded my full attention. At such times, Susan and I were in full agreement that taking time off was unavoidable.

In actual fact, that was only what I had assumed, since she never said anything.

After mentally assaulting myself a few times for my cowardice, I inhaled deeply and pressed the button.

Susan knew that what I did was important. She would understand, I had no doubt. Strike that; I had _little_ doubt.

I mean, come on. What could be more important that finding Rhodes's missing elder brother?

After three rings that seemed like they were spaced minutes apart, my boss's voice answered. "Yes?"

"Susan?" My own voice sounded unnaturally high. "This is Nadia. I'm sorry to call this late, but I need a huge favor." Not the best way to start, I'll admit. But what can one say at this point? _I'm flaking out on you again?_

"You need some time off."

I cringed. How well she knew me. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And I'm really sorry to spring it on you like this, but something incredibly important has come up."

There was a silence which felt like hours, though in reality - something that, in my life, usually took a back seat - it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. "You have a case?" Susan asked flatly.

Flat but not resigned. Not so good. "Yes. Actually, no. Well, sort of..." Apparently I had opted to babble like an imbecile. That always makes a first-rate impression. "Okay, here's the thing. My partner and I just found out that he has a brother." And pause for effect... "Unfortunately, he's gone missing. We have to go to New York to assist with the search."

"Your partner? Rhodes? He has a brother?" Now her voice was laced with doubt. _Definitely_ not good.

"Yes, I know, it's a shock to us, too. We just found out." Oh wait. I said that already. "Anyway, Rhodes is naturally very adamant about helping to find him, so--"

Susan cut me off abruptly. "And, naturally, you have to go to New York with him," she said in a knowing tone. Actually, more like _all_-knowing. Despite my currently humbled position, I was a little offended.

"Well, yes," I replied defensively. "He's my partner, and I want to be there to support him. I know he'd do the same for me. That's what partners do."

"Right." Another silence. "And when will you be back?"

_Oy vey._ "I'm afraid that there's really no way of knowing at the moment. I mean, until we find Rhodes's brother, or at least... at least find out what happened to him, it could be, I don't know, a matter of weeks before--"

A loud, exasperated sigh filled my right ear. "No, you know what, Nadia? Just forget it."

I dropped the lock of hair I had been twirling madly without realizing it. "What?" I blurted.

"I'm sorry, Nadia, but there's only so much of this I can take."

"You're..." I shook my head in what I see now was unrealistic disbelief. "You're _firing_ me?"

"I'm afraid you've left me with no other option. Let's get real here. You take time off constantly. You give me almost no notice beforehand. For a long time - _too_ long - I let it slide, because you're normally a hard worker. But lately, even when you're _here_, you're somewhere else. Your heart isn't in your work. It's with your Rhodes."

I swallowed. "My Rhodes?" I echoed weakly.

"Your partner. Your little detective business. Whenever a case comes up - whenever _he_ needs you - you drop everything and come running. You know it's true."

I did know. But I didn't want _her_ to know I knew. Or... wait.

"Look," I argued desperately, "I know I've been a little flaky lately. But I'm not a detective. I'm a massage therapist. That's what I do."

"But is it who you _are?_" she asked, catching me off guard. "Believe me, Nadia, I hate to lose you," she said, sounding genuinely regretful. "But how can I lose you when I never had you in the first place?"

My mouth moved, but I couldn't get any sound past my throat.

"I'm sorry. I hope everything works out in New York. You can pick up your table when you get back."

Finally my voice decided to come back. "Susan, please--"

"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be." She paused, then added as an afterthought, "Look, don't blame yourself for this. And don't blame me. Blame your Rhodes."

There was a click, and then the line went dead.

----

Rhodes cannot help but notice that Special Agent Solomon won't meet his eyes.

As Solomon converses on his cell phone with the New York branch, three time zones away, Rhodes observes other things as well: the agent's posture, his hand motions, the modulation of his voice, and the countless other minute and subtle details which tell him precisely how uncomfortable the man is in his presence.

Solomon, he decides, is concealing something. No... _avoiding_ something. But what?

He shakes his head in a temporary defeat. He'll never know until the agent puts down the phone, and at this rate it could easily be an eternity.

It would appear that Solomon was informed of Christopher DeMarco's disappearance simply to pass the information along to Rhodes. It was never their intent to enlist his help, and they are now insisting that the investigation is going quite swimmingly without him.

It is naturally very easy to lie over the phone.

What Rhodes knows is that the Bureau would never suffer the likes of him, a private investigator, to assist in or, God forbid, even take the lead in the recovery of one of their own, official or not. Rhodes has learned from experience that the FBI does not relinquish control or credit gladly.

"Yes, I understand that you're doing everything you _think_ can be done," Solomon is saying, his fleshy jaw tightened in annoyance. "But have you considered that, just maybe, you haven't thought of everything?" A pause, a roll of his faded blue eyes. "I know that. This is different. _He's_ different. This guy... You say DeMarco's good at what he does? Well, it runs in the family."

In any other circumstances, Rhodes might almost be flattered by the agent's carefully oblique compliment. But at the moment all he can feel is a curious numbness, an absence of sensation.

Christopher Jerome DeMarco. Kit DeMarco. Son of his father and a woman who was not his mother. His father would, of course, be the unfaithful party between them. And yet he cannot deny that he is surprised. Eugene Rhodes had been a man of unflinching, even imposing ideals, which he had mercilessly instilled in his son. A doctor through and through, his father had lectured him endlessly about the dangers of smoking, alcohol abuse, drugs. How could he have ignored his own lofty standards?

_Did I really know my father at all?_ he wonders.

"Oh, give me a break, Jerry," Solomon says vexedly. "The kid's loaded. He's not going to sue you if his brother turns up dead."

His gaze meets Rhodes's, who lifts an eyebrow quizzically, and Solomon quickly turns away.

Rhodes tunes the agent out and shifts his attention toward the other one-sided conversation currently taking place in his kitchen. He can't make out what Bridges is saying, but her voice, usually so low and smooth and pleasing to the ear, is raised half an octave in distress. His expressive eyebrows knit together in concern. His partner left the room some time ago to request time off from her massage practice. From the sound of it, it seems to be going as well as Solomon's attempt.

With an angry jab of a thick finger, the agent ends the call and shoves his phone in his pocket. "Well, you might as well go in there and tell Nadia not to bother," he says irritably. "The New York branch is pretty hell-bent on keeping you two right here in San Francisco, and out of their hair."

Rhodes breathes slowly though his nose, gathering his thoughts. "I take it," he says quietly, "that any notions of... _assisting_ without their knowledge would meet with disapproval on your part?"

"You mean, going to New York anyway?" Solomon snorts most uncharmingly. "Don't you dare, Rhodes. With you assisting in an advisory capacity, you're relatively safe if something goes wrong. But if you go there, unsanctioned, and screw up, I can't protect you."

"Forgive me, Solomon, I had no idea your mother was a hen," Rhodes remarks dryly.

Solomon's glare could boil tar. "Forget it," he growls.

Rhodes shrugs innocently, his fists in his trouser pockets. "Fair enough. Though while we're on the subject of lineage," he continues, slowly pacing the living room, "I cannot help but notice how little you've said about my brother's. Is there any particular reason for that?"

The agent's demeanor is instantly uncomfortable again. "What are you yammering about?" he mutters.

"I'm sorry, allow me to rephrase that question." Rhodes pins his bright green gaze on Solomon. "Is there any particular reason why you're sheltering me from the sordid deeds of my father?"

Solomon's shoulders seem to droop visibly. "Come on, Rhodes, you know I'm not _sheltering_--"

"I _beg_ you, Solomon, don't dissemble, and don't patronize." Rhodes's voice is hard and biting now, his southern accent more palpable. "I know my father was not a saint. I always knew it, somewhere in my mind, and this only confirms my suspicions. There is nothing you can say at this point which can possibly shock or offend me. So _please_ do not try to coddle or protect me, because quite frankly, it's beneath you."

There is a long silence, a battle of wills. Then Solomon nods almost imperceptibly. "You want to know? Fine." A deep breath. "Your parents went to New York to visit friends, three years before you were born. While your mother was at a luncheon with some other women, your father hooked up with a prostitute. Wanda DeMarco. She got pregnant, decided against an abortion, and gave the child to an orphanage. You happy?"

Though Rhodes's face doesn't change, his eyes seem to lose just a hint of their light. "Exceedingly," he says faintly.

Suddenly Solomon's cell phone rings. With a muttered curse, he pulls it out and flips it open. "Jerry, what is it now? I _told_ you--" Gradually his face goes blank as he listens. "Yes, this is Agent Solomon..."

Slowly, Rhodes returns to his seat, watching the agent's face intently. Whoever this is on the other end, it is clearly not who Solomon was expecting. He appears flustered. Or perhaps flustered is not the correct term; he looks positively bewildered.

"Yes, that's correct. Yes. Actually, no. He'll be with his partner. Nadia Bridges, that's right. Tomorrow morning? Uhh, I'm... sure that will be fine. Let me right this down." Frantically, he begins scribbling in his notebook. "Flight 211. Six forty-five A.M. Got it. Thank you very much for your assistance."

He snaps his phone shut and turns to Rhodes. "Pack your bags," he says with a crooked smile.

Rhodes rises to his feet, regarding the agent dubiously. "What changed?"

"I have no idea, but you'd better take what you can get." He tears the top page from his notebook and hands it to the younger man. "Sounds to me like somebody else is in charge. He just called to confirm your flights, like they'd been booked all along. He sounded kind of like you, too. It was bizarre."

Rhodes folds the slip of paper in half and tucks it into his own pocket. Then he grasps the agent's pudgy hand in his slender one. "For what it's worth, thank you, Solomon," he says quietly.

He brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. "Don't thank me. Thank Mr. Mystery Agent when you see him. He's meeting you at JFK tomorrow."

"Mystery Agent?" Rhodes repeats curiously. "Didn't he mention his name?"

"What? Yeah, of course." He waves his hand dismissively. "Pendergast. Special Agent Pendergast."

At that moment Rhodes hears soft footfalls, and he turns to see Bridges emerging from the hallway, her turquoise dress and honey-colored hair backlit from the kitchen beyond. He frowns when he sees the stricken look on her small pixie face.

"Bridges?" he prompts softly.

She looks slowly down at the cell phone in her hand, as if in a trance. "I just got fired," she murmurs.

----

A/N: (dramatic music) Well, how many of you saw _that_ coming? Hey, I told you it was a cross-over. Anyone who knows me will not be at all surprised. What can I say, I love my Pendergast. Actually, forget I said that. Agent Pendergast is not mine, he belongs to his creators, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. I'm just borrowing him for this story. To anyone who does not know who Pendergast is, I suggest reading their books. _Relic_ is the first one, but I recommend _The Cabinet of Curiosities_. It's Pendergast at his finest. In the meantime, please review! It would make me very happy.

-Waki


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